


wait, my dear one, wait for night to fall

by serenlyall



Series: Bail/Breha Kink Bingo [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, PWP, Sex, and i'll tag it, anyway, bail/breha kink bingo, but idk what else needs to be tagged???, idk what else to tag it with, it's literally nothing but sex, like obviously there's more to it than just that, so if you think something else does need to be tagged let me know, so much sex guys, teasing and denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenlyall/pseuds/serenlyall
Summary: Breha has been planning this since breakfast.
Relationships: Bail Organa/Breha Organa
Series: Bail/Breha Kink Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808320
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	wait, my dear one, wait for night to fall

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's not nearly enough Bail/Breha smut out there. And by "not enough" I definitely mean "barely any". I intend to change that, if I can - singlehandedly, if I must. Anyway, my girlfriend prompted me with a kink bingo card for them, and this is the first prompt I chose to fill: Teasing and Denial.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

He grabs her as soon as the door to their rooms is closed, pins her against the wall, and kisses her.

Breha laughs, nips at his lower lip, then presses her open mouth against her husband’s in a demand for his tongue. He obeys, and their kiss deepens, Bail’s fingers tangled in Breha’s braids, which are pinned to her skull with jade pins in an artful crown.

It is Breha who breaks the kiss at last, pushing her husband away and towards their bedroom, which stands open at the end of the hallway. Bail obeys for two steps, three, before he grabs Breha around the waist once more and drags her to a halt, pinning her back to his chest. He gathers her skirts in his hands, ties them around her hips, then ghosts his fingers along the waistband of her underclothes—only for her to push his hands away, drop her skirts, and twist in his hold.

“Not yet,” she commands, eyes bright with black fire, chin lifted high in royal decree. She reaches up and touches his cheek, a soft gesture that belies that lust in the twist of her lips and the flush in her cheeks.

“Not yet?” Bail echoes, quirking one eyebrow.

“I am your Queen, am I not?” Breha asks, her own eyebrows arching over her eyes.

“You are,” Bail accedes.

“Then I get what I want, do I not?” Breha demands.

“Always, my Queen,” Bail said.

“Well,” says Breha archly, “what I want tonight is to see my husband on his knees whimpering with the need to touch me.”

Bail’s lips curl into a smile. “I can give you that,” he says.

“Hmm,” Breha hums, and her smile turns coy. “I know you can.”

She takes his hand and leads him into their large bedroom, Bail kicking the door closed behind them. Once they are inside, Breha turns and eyes her husband, from boot to hairline, lips pursed and gaze lingering on the growing bulge in his pants.

“You already want me,” she comments.

“Always, my Queen,” Bail replies instantly.

Breha laughs—then lifts a hand when Bail reaches for the hem of his shirt. “No, dear,” she says, eyes sparking. “Tonight, you aren’t allowed to touch yourself—or me—until I tell you that you may.”

Bail’s eyes darken, and he drops his hands. Breha grins, then takes a step towards him, hands rising to press against his chest. She spins him—his back had been to their bedroom door—and pushes him backwards, toward their shared bed, stopping only when they are in the middle of the room.

Only then does Breha begin to disrobe her husband. His robe pools to the ground around his feet, leaving him in a soft shirt with a high collar that hides the scar on his neck and thick pants. His boots he kicks off and Breha’s nod.

Breha unlaces the shirt, then slides her hands beneath the hem to press her palms against her husband’s warm skin.

The shirt inches up his stomach, then his chest, as Breha slides her hands up his torso. She kisses his belly once it is bared, then the bottom of his ribs, then, after she pulls the soft silk over his head, takes one of his nipples into her mouth and sucks. Bail groans, and she senses as much as feels him lift his hands to touch her; she pulls away, grabs his wrists in her own hands, and pins them together behind his back. Her body is pressed flush against his, but she stares up into his face and says with authority, “I said you may not touch me until I give the word, did I not?”

“Yes, my Queen,” Bail murmurs.

“Then why did you try to do so?”

“I am nothing but a man,” Bail replies, “and my wife is beautiful beyond compare.”

Breha laughs, but says, “I think we ought to do something to keep you from accidentally disobeying me again, should we not?”

“I think so, my Queen,” Bail says.

That is the invitation Breha had been waiting for. She disappears into the closet attached to their bedroom for a moment, before reappearing with soft rope in her hands. Bail does not fight her as she pulls his hands behind his back, and does not protest as she binds his wrists with one of the ropes. He only groans when she presses her body against his back, trapping his hands between them, and reaches around to begin fumbling blindly for the clasp on his pants.

She kisses his shoulders and spine as she works on the buckle, leaving wet, hot marks of possession in her wake. Bail shudders beneath her touch, a tiny mewl already building in his chest as Breha finishes unbuttoning his pants and slides her small hands down beneath the waistband. She presses her fingers and palms against the soft cloth of his underclothes and his straining cock, cupping it and humming gently.

“So needy,” she comments into his skin. “So wanting.”

She pulls her hands free, and shimmies his pants down, over his hips, past his knees, and around his ankles. He steps out of them, leaving him naked but for his underclothes.

Breha turns him around to face her. She cants her head, once more eyeing her husband thoughtfully, before nodding. She deftly pulls the waistband of his underclothes down, and he steps out of those as well, leaving him deliciously bare before her. She hums in appreciation of him—of his skin, of his color, of his muscle, of his eyes, of his mouth, of his cock—and then presses herself fully against him once more. His cock jumps against her stomach, and she knows, knows, knows he is already aching for her.

She, however, has only just begun.

“Do you want me?” she asks her husband.

“Desperately,” Bail replies.

“What would you be willing to do to have me?” she asks him, trailing a single fingernail down his chest.

“Anything,” Bail growls.

“Beg,” Breha says, looking through her lashes up at him.

“I beg you, O Queen of my heart, let me touch you,” Bail whispers hoarsely. “Let me lavish upon you all the love and pleasure your heart and soul and body deserve.”

“Hmmm,” Breha hums again, taking a step back. “Beautiful—but not what I wanted to hear.”

She turns away and begins to undress. Bail groans with annoyance, unable to watch as she begins to unfasten the tiny clasps on the sides of her dress. He can see, however, when she lets the dress drop to the floor at her feet, leaving her entirely naked.

“My Queen,” he says, grinning, “what would the tabloids say if they knew?”

Breha turns slowly, revealing herself to her husband. “They would say,” she tells him coyly, “that I have been planning how I was going to make love to my husband since this morning, and have been taunting him and toying with him to get to this very moment since breakfast.”

“You truly are a devious and cruel woman,” Bail says.

“Only for you,” Breha tells him, smirking. “Now then,” she says, “do you want to hear what I’ve been planning for tonight?”

“Desperately,” Bail informs his wife.

“I am going to play with you,” Breha tells him, “taunt you and tease you until you are begging me to allow you to touch me. And then I am going to say no, and I am going to bind you to my bed, and _I_ am going to touch _you_. I am going to touch you, and play with you, until you orgasm so hard you cannot move, and then—and _only_ then—will I allow you to so much as lift a finger to my skin. How does that sound to you, dear?” she asks.

“Like hell,” says Bail. Then he grins, and adds, “But I am no saint.”

“So that is a yes?” Breha asks.

“Yes,” Bail rasps, voice hoarse with need and want and lust.

Breha smiles. She circles around him, swaying her hips and reaching out to trail her fingertips against her husband’s chest, arms, shoulders, back. He shivers beneath her touch, but holds still all the same, not daring to move. Breha’s smile widens.

She halts in front of him, in full view. She eyes him, tongue flicking out to lick at her lips, then lifts her arms over her head in a parody of a stretch. She thrusts her chest out, and when she lowers her hands again, slowly, she brings one to her breast and pinches at and rolls a single nipple between thumb and forefinger. It hardens, pointed and firm, beneath her fingers, and she watches as her husband licks his own lips.

“Do you wish this was your hand on my breast?” Breha asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.”

“If I allowed you to touch me,” Breha asks then, “what would you do?”

“I would kiss you,” Bail says. “First your lips,” and Breha ghosts her forefinger against her lips, “then your throat—” Breha drops her hand to touch her neck, fingers lingering on her pulsepoint. “—then each breast—” Breha cups her breasts, smoothing her thumbs over her nipples. “—then your stomach.” Breha flattens her hands on her belly, before allowing them to slide down to her hips.

“Then?” she asks, expectant.

“Then I would take you into my arms, and I would sink my fingers into you, and I would make you scream with pleasure.”

Breha lets her head fall to one side, and she slides her right hand between her legs. Her husband groans, eyes flicking from her hand to her face, then back down again, and he watches as she begins to play with herself—slowly, with small movements and gestures that send only the tiniest rolls of pleasure through her.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Hmm,” her husband hums. “Not quite.” His eyes meet hers, dark with desire, and he adds, “Free my hands and I will show you.”

Breha laughs, then with her free hand crooks a finger at him and backs up a step, two, three towards their bed. “Not yet,” she says. Her right hand she keeps between her legs, even as her husband follows obediently, hands still bound behind his back.

Breha reaches their bed, and she halts. She pulls her hand from between her folds, her fingers slick with her own arousal, and she steps toward her husband, standing a few paces away. She lifts her hand, damp with her arousal, and traces his lips with her forefinger; his tongue sneaks out and licks at her skin, and Breha hums.

“Do you like how I taste?” she whispers, pressing close to—but not quite touching—her husband.

“More than the finest wine,” Bail replies, and snakes his head forward to take her finger into his mouth. He sucks gently, and Breha groans, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“You do know how to speak sweetly,” she says, and with her left hand she reaches out to cup Bail’s cock in her palm. “I suppose that deserves some form of reward, hm?”

Bail finishes sucking her finger clean, and kisses the fingertip before drawing away. His saliva cools on Breha’s skin, and she shivers.

“Only if my Queen deems me worthy,” Bail says.

Breha’s eyes dance. “A kiss for a kiss,” she says, and kneels slowly in front of her husband.

She shifts her hand, so she is holding his cock rather than cupping it, and then leans forward and presses a gentle, chaste kiss against the tip. His cock jumps at the touch of her lips, and she hears Bail whimper. “How badly do you want me, dear?” she asks, looking up at him from where she kneels in front of him.

“More than words can say,” Bail tells her, looking down and meeting her gaze.

Breha pulls away, dropping her hand from his cock and standing.

“Kneel,” she commands, and Bail obeys instantly and silently, settling onto his knees facing her. “Good,” she tells him, and reaches out to trace the line of his jaw. “You’re always so ready to obey me,” she murmurs, looking at his slightly parted lips. She wants to kiss them, but she holds herself back. “I wonder what I can do to make you desperate enough to try to _disobey_ me, though.”

Before Bail can answer, though, Breha straightens, dropping her hand, and says proudly, “Now then, dear, I want you to watch closely.” She backs up until the backs of her knees hit the bed, and then sinks down onto the mattress. She lays back, folding her legs up onto the bed as well but keeping them bent at the knees and spread apart, and props herself up on one elbow so that she can still see her husband’s face. Then, with her free hand, she once more sinks her fingers between her legs and begins to stroke.

She watches Bail’s face as she begins to play with herself. With her positioned in front of him as she is, he can see everything—her wet folds, her entrance, her fingers rolling and pinching and playing with her most sensitive spots—and she knows he is growing desperate. She can see it in his dark eyes, in the flush on his cheeks, in the way his shoulders jump as he involuntarily tugs at the rope binding his hands behind his back.

“Do you want to be the one touching me?” Breha asks, sliding her middle finger between her folds.

“Yes,” Bail pants.

“Why?” Breha asks.

“Because you are beautiful in every way,” Bail answers in an instant. “Because you deserve all the pleasure these war-torn, battle-scarred hands can give you. Because I love you, and I want to hear you scream my name.”

“Hmm,” Breha hums, and slides a fingertip into herself.

“Would you kiss me here?” she asks, pulling the fingertip out and spreading herself wide for him.

“Yes,” Bail answers.

“Would you put your fingers inside of me?” she asks, sliding one finger back into herself.

“Of course,” Bail says.

“What about your tongue?” she asks, sliding a second finger in as she pumps her hand.

“Whatever my Queen desires,” Bail tells her.

Breha smiles. “Whatever I desire,” she muses, still pumping. “Hmm.” She grins wickedly. “I desire for you to need me with your entire body, mind, and soul,” she says, at last pausing in her play.

“I do,” Bail replies.

“Then prove it,” says Breha, fingers still, buried knuckle-deep inside of her.

Bail licks his lips, then meets her eyes with his and says, “Please, Breha. I beg you. I beseech you. I entreat you. Free me so I may touch you. So I may kiss you. So I may make your body thrum with pleasure. I know you; I know what makes you cry, what makes you scream, what makes you laugh. Let me play your body like a symphony, your heart like a concert. Let me show you how much you are loved by me.”

“And what, pray tell,” Breha asks, “will you do if I allow you to touch me?”

“I will put my mouth against you,” Bail says, eyes still fixed intently on hers. “I will lick and suck and play until you come against my tongue. Then I will kiss your lips, so you will know how delicious you taste, and I will put my hands on your body. I will play with your breasts, and I will bring you to fruition with one hand, then the other. I will worship you with my lips, with my tongue, with my words—and only once you have come again, and you are delirious with pleasure, will I take you as a husband ought.”

“What then?” Breha asks, half-breathless.

“Then I will fuck you until you scream my name and come around me,” Bail says, grinning.

Breha groans at the thought, the tightness of an orgasm already spinning within her at just the picture her husband has painted for her.

But then she steels her resolve and she straightens, pulling her fingers out of herself and sitting up.

“That is not what I had in mind for the evening,” she tells Bail sweetly, “as delicious as that sounds.”

“Oh?” Bail asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“No,” Breha says, and stands. It is rare for her to tower over her husband, but she does so now; she looks down at him, lips pursed, eyeing his desire and his straining cock. “Stand up,” she orders, and he obeys silently. “Turn around,” she says. Again, he obeys without hesitation or complaint.

She unties his hands, the knot in the soft rope coming away with an easy tug, then orders, “Lay down, and put your hands above your head.” He does so, sliding to the center of the bed and situating his head on a pillow, then lifting his hands over his head to press against the headboard; he knows what is coming, and he is willing.

Breha climbs onto the bed, then straddles her husband and quickly loops the soft rope around the headboard and his wrists. She ties it, cinching his hands tight enough that he cannot escape on his own, but loose enough that the rope will not cut off circulation or cause any danger or harm. Bail stares up at her with trust in his eyes, and waits for her next move.

Sighing deep in her chest, Breha settles down against her husband’s hips. His erect cock presses between her legs, and Breha smiles at the mewl of dismay her husband gives as she shifts position ever so slightly, grinding her folds against him. She moves again, sliding gently back and forth, up and down, and feels him whimper in his throat.

“Does this feel good?” she asks, pausing in her movements. Bail nods, fingers twisting helplessly in the rope binding his hands still. She begins to move again, rubbing herself against him for one long, slow, luxurious moment, then another. She revels in the hard feel of him sliding against her, basks in the liquid heat pooling in his eyes, delights in the mewling sounds of frustration and want and need he makes as she grinds against him.

Breha hums again, then lifts herself away from her husband’s cock. Bail’s hips buck, trying to follow her, and Breha laughs before pushing him back down to the bed. “Tsk,” she tuts, shifting so that she is kneeling over his knees. “So needy,” she comments, eyeing him with mock reproach. Then she bends over, until her lips are even with his cock, and says, “But then, I’m needy too,” and lips at him.

Bail whimpers, and once more his hips buck, this time involuntarily. Breha presses him flat against the bed once more, and keeps him there with her hands on his hips as her tongue flicks out to taste the head of his cock. Bail groans as she licks daintily once, twice, three times, tongue swirling around the tip before she dips her head to press an open-mouthed kiss against his shaft.

“Breha,” Bail begs.

“Yes, dear?” Breha asks innocently, lifting her eyes but keeping her head positioned just over Bail’s cock.

He only groans in reply, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back to the pillow as Breha flicks her tongue out once more to touch him. Breha laughs, then takes him into her mouth.

She does not take him in fully, instead only focusing on the head. She sucks gently, swirls her tongue over and around him, then ghosts her teeth against his skin. Bail sighs a groan, and Breha can feel the tension of too many days at court at last, _at last_ beginning to bleed out of him, while the tension of an orgasm tightens.

Moving her fingers from his hips, Breha takes the shaft of his cock in one hand, and begins to massage his balls with the other. Bail whines and shifts beneath her, and Breha can feel him beginning to rapidly unspool. She pulls her mouth off of him, though she continues to hold his cock with one hand and play with his balls with the other, and blows a thin stream of air at him. He shivers, her saliva cooling on him and making gooseflesh ripple up and down his skin.

“Do you want me?” Breha asks, crawling up his body to lay on his chest. “Tell me, Bail,” she says, and she kisses his lips gently, sensually, once, twice, “do you want me?” She kisses him again, and he kisses her, and for a moment they are bound together by mutual desire. They end the kiss, though Breha leaves her lips pressed almost against her husband’s, and she asks, “Well?”

“Of course I want you,” Bail says, and once more closes the distance between them. His tongue slides into her mouth, their kiss deepens, and Breha strokes his cheek tenderly. _I love you_ , she says with every touch, with every taste, with every second—and _You are mine_ , she adds, splaying her hand across his cheek possessively.

Bail ends the kiss with a nip at Breha’s bottom lip, and then he drops his head back onto the pillow beneath him and, looking up at her, he says, “I want you with my entire being.”

His words are simple, his tone plain, his eyes guileless; his love is clear, his trust obvious, his truth bare—and in that moment, Breha loves the man beneath her with enough ferocity to burn a star to cinders.

“Then you shall have me,” she whispers, and presses her lips against his once more.

She straightens, then shifts so she is once more straddling his hips. Reaching down, she guides his cock to her entrance, then slides onto him; she groans as he fills her, and Bail echoes her with a plaintive mewl of his own.

“Gods,” Breha breathes as she begins to move, first slowly—with tantalizing, aching, luxuriating slowness—then ever so slightly faster. “Gods,” she says again, louder, “but I love the way you fill me.”

Bail unconsciously tugs at the rope securing his wrists, as if he means to reach for her. “Faster,” he pants. “Please, Breha…”

Breha slows, coming almost to a complete halt. She laughs at the frustration on Bail’s face. “You didn’t think I was going to make it that easy for you, did you?” she teases, and shakes her head. “You wanted to be in me, and I gave that to you—but you still aren’t ready for your release.”

Bail moans, licks his lips, and asks, “When _will_ I be ready for it?”

Breha cants her head to one side, sinking deeper onto her husband’s cock, and replies, “Dear, we’ve only just begun.”

She stares down at him as she begins to move once more—looks at his bare belly, at his broad chest, at his muscled shoulders—and she swallows a moan of her own. She loves the feel of him inside of her, huge and swollen and desperate for release—loves the sensation of him sliding against her walls, pressing deep into her core. It fulfills her in a way she had never thought possible until their wedding night—makes her feel whole, wanted, adored.

Breha had wept the first time they had sex. Her newly-wed husband had panicked at her tears and had grabbed her hips, stopping her movements, words of concern and terror falling from his lips like honeyed rain. “Breha,” he had said, and her name had been a sonata on his tongue. “Breha, what did I do wrong? Do you need to stop? Do you _want_ to stop?”

“No,” she had cried, and clutching his wrists in her small, dainty hands she had leaned down to kiss him once, twice, three times, her tears falling on his face. “No,” she had said again, wiping her tears from his cheeks. “I simply never thought I could love someone this much,” she had confessed, and had leaned down to kiss him again.

She leans down to kiss Bail again now, stilling on his cock, letting him fill her and elate her. She slides her tongue into his mouth and drinks of her lust for him, until her belly is swollen and warm with it. She licks his bottom lip, nips at his chin, sucks at a nipple, still bearing down on him but not moving. Bail groans and shifts his hips, making Breha laugh.

“Patience, _Querido_ ,” she comments, smoothing a hand down his stomach.

“I am not a patient man,” Bail groans, twisting his hands into the rope binding his wrists.

Breha laughs again. “You are the most patient man I know,” she tells him, sitting up straight.

She stares down at her husband once more and devours the sight of him. His skin is darker than hers, his eyes black pools of hot desire, his beard neatly trimmed though his hair is slightly mussed from moving against the pillow beneath his head. Muscle ripples across his shoulders and chest, and Breha knows that he could break her frail body if he tried.

Yet she also knows he never would—knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would break the world before he would so much as lift a finger against her. She has felt the cage of his arms around her, protecting her; she has felt his body break above her to keep her safe; she has felt his breath against her skin as he whispered promise after promise of devotion into her bones.

He had been skittish when he first came to her bed, afraid of her touch, afraid of his own pleasure, afraid of her love. She had tamed him, slowly and lovingly—had taught him to trust her, taught him to trust himself, taught him to accept the love and desire she lavished upon him—and had carefully walked with him into accepting her as his wife.

 _His wife_. Those words still sent a thrill of hot pleasure through Breha’s core, until they pooled in her lower belly as liquid gold. She had tamed him, yes, but she was as much his as he was hers—as much as they were each other’s. They were partners, for all that she was his Queen; and as she drank in the sight of her husband— _My husband_ , she thought with delicious satisfaction—and began to move on him once more, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would break the world for him as well.

At the moment, though, all she cares about is the feeling of him sliding within her, is the sight of his dark eyes feasting upon her skin, is the pent up sound of desperate frustration that sighs from his lips.

She loves these moments—these seconds, these hours, these days—more than almost anything. She loves to tease him, loves to watch him come undone as the pleasure _she_ made for him spiraled in his body, loves to see the trust he has in her to give him what he wants, what he needs, what he desires. She loves to see him desperate beneath her, loves to hear him beg, loves to see her mighty husband weak at her touch and ministration.

More than that, though, she loves _him_.

The minutes blossom and bloom around them. Bail sighs and groans and whimpers, while Breha laughs and glories in the feel of him within her. She touches him as she rides him, just as she always does—runs her hands along his belly, ghosts her fingers across his hips, touches his chin and his chest and his throat. It is a silent, gentle reminder of who she is, and what she means for him, and what he means to _her._ She loves him, every part of him, and this is her reminder.

The sun, which had already been setting when their night began, sinks behind the mountains. Darkness claims their room as the stars appear, as the last traces of conflagration fade from the evening sky, as the first moon rises. It sheds weak light into their bedroom, gilding Bail’s dark hair in silver where it falls across their bed, ghosting his skin to pearl. Breha bathes in the light, and drinks of the shadow, until she is a mistress of both. Bail watches her, enraptured, as a man stares at his goddess.

And still Breha rides him, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, bringing him near to his release before stopping altogether. She pulls herself off of him once, twice, thrice—takes him back into her mouth, into her hands, into her folds. She tastes herself on him, and she luxuriates in the taste of him nearing his end. He jumps and bobs against her tongue, twitches beneath her fingers, shivers between her legs. And still she grinds against him, rubs his shaft, sucks his head.

“Breha,” he pleads once, twice, thrice. “Breha,” he pleads again, “please.”

“Hmmm,” Breha hums, and takes him deep into her throat. She swallows around him, sighs, hums again, and Bail whimpers in desperation. Breha hears the headboard creak slightly as he jerks against the rope, and she feels his legs twitch. She smiles against him, then draws herself away with aching slowness.

Once more she guides his cock to her entrance, slides onto him with a groan, and begins to move. Bail keens. The sound is soft but full of need, of desperation, of desire.

Breha grins.

“Do you want to come?” she asks her husband.

“Please, Breha,” Bail begs, nearly weeping. “Let me come.”

Breha smiles.

“And what will you do if I say no?” she asks, raising one sculpted eyebrow.

Bail closes his eyes and shudders.

Breha touches his stomach, his chest, his chin, his lips. “Bail,” she says, “open your eyes.”

He opens his eyes.

“Look at me.”

There is trust in his gaze, even more than there is need.

Breha smiles again. “Come for me, my love,” she says, and thrusts herself down onto him, pulls herself nearly away, pushes down again.

Bail groans, mewls, whimpers her name. A thousand nameless emotions play across his features, drip in his eyes and pool on his lips. One second passes, two—and then Bail cries out, her name on his tongue as he bites off the sound, just as he always does. The warmth of his seed fills her and drips down the insides of her thighs, and Breha laughs, stilling, then pulling off of him.

Bail lays there, motionless, breathing heavily. Breha settles down at his side, resting a hand on his breast, and looks at his face. Slowly he turns his eyes to her and smiles weakly.

“I love you,” he says softly.

Breha leans over and kisses him sweetly. “And I love you,” she tells him, her lips still pressed against his. “How do you feel?” she asks, straightening once more.

“As though I am in heaven,” Bail says, sighing and closing his eyes.

“Good,” says Breha. She kisses him again, then frees his hands and turns his face toward her. “But no sleeping yet,” she informs him as he opens his eyes again. She grins. “You and I both need to clean up—and I believe I promised to allow you to touch me, once I was done with you.”

Bail laughs, and after a moment props himself shakily up on one elbow. “That you did, my Queen,” he says.

“Not that you have to,” Breha adds airily, “but—”

“Oh, I want to,” Bail informs her, reaching up and cupping one cheek with one of his large hands. He turns her face toward him and leans in to kiss her deeply. Breha sighs and melts into his hand, into his lips, into his touch. “But come,” he says, breaking away at last. He takes one of her hands in one of his, and slides from the bed. “First, a shower.”

“First?” Breha asks coyly. “You mean you won’t touch me while we shower?”

Bail smirks, tugging her to her feet and then pulling her body against his, her back to his chest. “I never said that,” he growls into her ear, one hand already drifting up to cup one of her breasts.

Breha shivers at the sound of his voice, at the feel of his breath on her skin, at his fingers against her left nipple. “Then come, Viceroy,” she says imperiously, breaking free of his hold but turning to capture one of his hands in both her hers. “Show me what you meant.”

She leads the way into the ‘fresher, Bail following after obediently, the yellow light coming on as they enter. Then the door slides shut, cutting them, and the light, off from view, and leaving their room in darkness once more.

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Comment and let me know! 
> 
> Oh, and if you want a follow-up chapter, let me know that too. I'm vaguely inclined to write the shower scene, but I might not unless there's interest in it ;)


End file.
